THE FLOWERS OF

The jewels of the sun are not more rare

Than these that lie upon my lurid halls.

The perfume kiss upon the drowsy air

Is sweet as Spring can hold within her walls.

The spell which night may cast upon her thralls

Is mine; the length of all this gloomy land

Knows no more sun than falls from my white hand.

My wealth great kings have prayed for — in their pride,

Bowing before me. Nay — I hate the place.

I am no queen at heart — my laughter died

That I might wear my crown with regal grace

The very flowers which smile on my sad face

I am afraid of. See! they are the worst

Of all my fears; so fair — yet black accurst.

The languid passion-poppy sways and dips

To show the black heart bursting into flame.

The crimson evil of a satyr's lips

A sneering nodding finger-post of shame;

A thousand other flowers without a name

Huddle all trembling in the dusk behind

Like hunted ghosts, whose eyes are white and blind.

The grass is not the grass that overhead

Cooled my bare feet with daisies’ purest snows;

But thick pale blades, like fingers of the dead

Thrust from forgotten graves upon their foes.

Ah — horrid soil! for everything that grows

In this confine but mocks in wicked scorn

The fairness of the land where I was born.